


I'm Ready

by GubraithianFire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Childhood Friends, FTM Sherlock Holmes, First Date, Friends to Lovers, John Watson is Perfect, M/M, Teenlock, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trans Sherlock, supportive parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is nervous about his first date with his best friend and takes a trip down the memory lane on how they became what they are now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Ready

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, okay. So, this one shot was buried in what I renamed my "shame folder". I wrote this in the summer, because I wanted to try out some fluff (since no matter what I do, it always has angst in it).
> 
> Upon rereading it earlier tonight (instead of focusing on my other WIPs now that I'm back from holidays, *sigh*), I kinda thought "Why not post it"? I mean, everyone deserves some translock that doesn't focus on Sherlock being trans. Hell, _I_ do. 
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine and mine only. Fear not pointing them out!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Sherlock steps out of the shower and takes a deep breath.

He ruffles his wet hair with a towel, trying not to let his anxiety take over him. His stomach keeps churning and his palms are already sweaty, despite having just finished to shower. He tries to calm down, stepping in a clean pair of boxers and wearing his binder. He fixes it on his chest and on his back, making circles with his arms and taking a few breaths to get more comfortable in it. He brings his arms up and looks at his profile in the mirror. No breasts in sight. Perfect. 

Oh _god_ , he can’t do this.

He braces himself against the sink, gritting his teeth.  He doesn’t know why he’s so goddamn scared, but he is. Oh, he desperately is. 

He glances up at the clock hung in the bathroom. John will be there in twenty minutes. He can’t call him to feign some kind of illness now, it’s too late. _Oh god, oh god, ohgodohgodohgod_

 _Get a grip, boy_ , Sherlock tells himself, looking at his reflection in the mirror. He fixes his binder again and nods at himself, then he steps out of the bathroom and into his room. 

He opens his wardrobe and starts rummaging through his clothes, growing more and more panicked as the minutes pass. 

Where is John going to take him? Somewhere fancy or casual? Should he wear a simple t shirt? Or a smart shirt? Jeans or his tailored trousers? And what about his hair? Combed or a bit ruffled? John once told him he liked his hair tousled. So that’s one thing. 

Ten minutes. Sherlock takes yet another deep breath and takes a purple shirt from his wardrobe. He’s just bought it, so John has never seen him in it. He _really_ hopes he made the right choice. 

He leaves the first button unfastened, enough to show some skin, but not enough to reveal the binder below. 

Sherlock takes out a pair of well-worn dark jeans, so that he can be comfortable and look somewhat smart in them. 

The doorbell downstairs rings. Shit. 

He runs to bathroom, splashing some cologne on his face and then runs down the stairs, just in time to see his mother opening the door to John. 

Sherlock stops in his track and nearly trips over. 

John is _stunning_. Sherlock has a perfect visual from the last step of the stairs, and he can see John’s profile perfectly. His golden hair is literally glowing, thanks to the contrast that a blue jumper (that looks incredibly soft) is offering. His jeans are tighter than the ones he usually wears at school, and they do a flattering job to his arse and his toned thighs. 

John is smiling politely at his mother, and he’s holding a bunch of flowers in his left hand. Sherlock must gasp or make some kind of noise, because suddenly John’s eyes snap in his direction, as if drawn by a magnet. 

John’s smile falters, and the older boy gapes at him, a flush rising on his tanned cheeks. Sherlock takes a moment to feel smug about his care in picking the perfect outfit. 

Sherlock’s heart is beating so fast that its sound is the only thing he can hear, and for a moment the whole room narrows to John and John only. 

He will surely die before their first date is over. 

“Oh, John! These are beautiful!” Sherlock’s mother exclaims, pointing at the flowers lying forgotten in John’s hand. 

John seems to remember just then that he and Sherlock are not alone in the room, and he shakes his head a couple of times before turning his attention to Mrs. Holmes. 

“They’re for you,” he says politely, handing her the bouquet. 

“Oh, John,” she squeals, batting her hand in front of herself and smacking John’s shoulder lightly, “you shouldn’t have.”

She takes the flowers from his hand and brings them to face, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. 

John beams his most charming smile at her, the one that makes Sherlock’s stomach clench and turn every single time.

“I know I shouldn’t have. I just wanted to, ma’am.”

Mrs. Holmes’ eyes fly open, “How many times, John? I’ve known you since you were this tall, call me Violet for heaven’s sake!”

John stuffs his hands in his pockets, shrugging, “I think you’ll just have to keep reminding me,” he pauses. “Violet,” he finishes, winking at her. 

“Oh, you’re such a little charmer you,” Mrs. Holmes says, chuckling. 

Sherlock observes the whole exchange from afar, still frozen on the stairs, unable to take a step. 

“Hey, Sherlock,” John says softly, smiling warmly at him. Mrs. Holmes bites on her lower lip and bows her head, hiding a smile. 

“I’m gonna put these in a vase. You two have fun!” she says, grinning at John and exiting the room. As she disappears through the door to the living room, she gives Sherlock an encouraging nod and a wink. 

This seems to break Sherlock’s paralysis, and he takes the few steps that separate him from John. 

“Hey,” he murmurs and _nonono_ he’s voice is trembling. He clears his throat, stopping in front of John. He shuffles on his feet, feeling restless, his eyes glued to the ground. Then, he feels John’s fingers nudging his chin up, and their eyes meet. 

“You look lovely tonight,” John whispers, and there is so much tenderness in his voice that it makes Sherlock melt in a shapeless puddle. He knows he has blushed beet red, and he tries to formulate a coherent answer, but all that escape his mouth are meaningless stutters. 

John doesn’t mock him, doesn’t press on, doesn’t look annoyed; John, John, perfect John, he just smiles at Sherlock and waits. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “You too,” he finally manages to say and John lowers his gaze, smiling sheepishly, almost embarrassed. 

Sherlock really can’t fathom the source of his nervousness. 

He has known John for years, since Sherlock was eight and John nine. They met the day John moved, just two houses down Sherlock’s road.   


Sherlock was hiding in the bushes by John’s new house, when John spotted him. After carrying a cardboard box inside, he ran towards Sherlock and crawled in the bush beside him. 

“What are you doing here?” John asked, a blinding smile on his face. 

“I’m deducing you,” Sherlock replied, crossing his arms. 

“What do you mean?” John got closer to Sherlock, scratching some mud off his arm. 

“Exactly what I said. I was observing your family in order to deduce you, and now I know everything about you.” 

John smiled even more, showing the hole between his upper teeth. “Let’s hear then.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, ready to be mocked or beaten like he was used to. The other children never appreciated what his father called ‘his special talent’.

“I know that your mother died, most likely after a long illness, and that’s why your father has moved, to offer you and your sister the chance of a new beginning. Your father is a banker, but he still hasn’t found a new job, so he’s currently working as a translator of children books, thanks to his rudimental knowledge of German and his friendship with someone who works in a publishing house.”

The blonde kid was staring at Sherlock with a stunned expression, so Sherlock huffed and continued.

“Don’t give me that look. I saw your father carrying some cardboard boxes with ‘Anna’ written on them, but I heard him calling your sister ‘Harriet’, so Anna must be your mother. She’s not here though, and the boxes with her name are only two, which means there isn’t much stuff in them. She died then, because if she had left you wouldn’t be keeping her things. She died recently, or you wouldn’t have still two boxes full of her belongings. Moreover, if she died in an accident you’d still be mourning and also angry. No, it was an illness, you were prepared and now you’re trying to move on.”  Sherlock stopped speaking and noticed John was on the verge of tears, his dark blue eyes red, his lower lip sucked in his mouth.

Sherlock suddenly felt sad, for having wiped that toothy smile off the boy. He wrapped his arms around himself. “Sorry, it was rude of me talking about your mum like that,” he murmured, staring at a brown leaf on the ground.

John shook his head, passing the back of his hand over his eyes, “No, no, it’s fine. How did you know my dad’s job?” 

Sherlock eyed John sceptically, but went on. “Well, he had a bunch of children books in German under his arm, either you come from Germany or he translates them. And since he just finished talking on the phone with someone in a terrible German, well, second option is more likely.”

“You know German?” John asked in awe, gaping at him.

“I know everything.” 

“No one knows everything.”

“Well, I do.”

The two kids stared at each other for long seconds, before John started laughing. 

“That was sooo cool!” he exclaimed eventually, and Sherlock blushed, tucking a strand of his long hair behind an ear, “even though you’re a bit weird.”

Sherlock glared at him, feeling an odd sense of disappointment sink in his stomach. Why he had thought John was different from his classmates was a mystery. He had laughed at him like everyone else. Sherlock started to crawl out of the bush, and he was definitely _not_ crying. 

“No wait! I didn’t mean ‘weird’ in a bad way, what you did was super cool!” 

Sherlock stopped on his way out, and turned his head ever so slightly. “You mean that?” He questioned.

John nodded emphatically, “Yeah, for real.”

Sherlock searched his eyes, and found that John was telling the truth, however improbable that was. 

“I’m John by the way,” the blonde boy introduced himself, and Sherlock nodded, sitting back down beside him.

“I’m Sherlock,” he said, somewhat suspiciously. His peers weren’t usually kind when it came to Sherlock exposing their family life.

“Are you sure you don’t you want to punch me? For what I said about your family?” He asked, and John frowned at him.

“Why would I? You were right about everything! Besides, dad always says that one should never hit girls.”

Sherlock smacked the boy’s arm then, hard. 

“OUCH! What the hell was that for?” he asked, theatrically holding his arms. 

“Girls can defend themselves,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms. 

The two kids regarded each other for long seconds, before starting laughing. 

Since then, Sherlock has shared with John almost every aspect of his life. 

John always wanted to play at the pirates with Sherlock, and he would never complain when Sherlock announced that he’d be the captain and John the first mate (for the millionth time). 

John helped Sherlock dig a hole where to bury Redbeard, and said a few words at the impromptu funeral, hugging Sherlock tightly when he started to cry. 

John brought Sherlock whipped cream and strawberries and a bunch of DVDs the day Mycroft left for uni, and stayed up all night listening to Sherlock ramble about how obnoxious his brother was (and how much he missed him already).

John read to Sherlock out loud when he was bored to tears or just needed to be soothed. He made all the funny voices and impressions, moving his hands around, and Sherlock always found himself enthralled by the boy’s movements. 

John once hit Sebastian Wilkes on the mouth when he called Sherlock a freak in middle school, and in  secondary school he told everyone that if someone ever bothered Sherlock, they’d have the whole rugby team on to them. 

John always introduces Sherlock to his friends with no shame, and if his friends have an issue with him, John always takes Sherlock’s side, no matter what. It’s thanks to John, and John only, if Sherlock has so many friends. If he met sweet Molly and brilliant Irene and patient Lestrade and kind Mike and sassy Janine. It was thanks to John that these people called him a friend.

John is the one Sherlock trusts implicitly, illogically, unconditionally.

John is the one who helped Sherlock search the internet for explanations about gender, never once invalidating Sherlock’s feelings on the matter. 

John is the one who held Sherlock’s hand the day he came out as trans to his family.

John is the one who went shopping for male clothes with him, who made research about safe binding methods and helped him choose the best hairstyle. 

John is the one who grits his teeth whenever someone misgenders Sherlock and who never, ever got a pronoun wrong since Sherlock decided to go by he/him. 

Sherlock can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he stopped seeing John as a friend and developed romantic feelings for him. 

He just knows that one day he and John were in a shop, and John was showing him a set of beanies that “would look good on you, Sher,” and Sherlock’s heart stopped beating. He perfectly remembers that he froze and just nodded, because all he could think of saying was, “I love you.” 

It’s been a year since John has first asked Sherlock to go on a date with him, on a rainy Sunday of October. 

They were in Sherlock’s bedroom, doing their homework, when John asked, almost casually, if Sherlock wanted to go out with him. 

“Sure,” Sherlock answered, frowning at John’s flushed cheeks. 

“N-no, I don’t mean like we usually do. I-I meant like, a, erm... a _date_ ,” John explained, pretending to keep reading his textbook. 

Sherlock’s heart stopped beating, then it started again at inhuman speed. 

That was all he wanted. Not even in his dreams Sherlock dared to hope that John, perfect, magnificent, beautiful John, might ever feel the same as he. Hearing John speak those words felt like touching the sky, pure elation. 

And yet. 

And yet Sherlock felt paralyzed with fear. He didn’t feel ready. He wanted to answer, “Yeah, why not. When?” but he was too scared.

He thought of one thousand and one reasons why John was The Right One. And then thought of the one reason why maybe it would be better if they waited.

He wasn’t already comfortable in his gender identity to start dating someone. Even if that someone was John.

Sherlock told him, and (obviously) John understood, like he always did. He nodded in Sherlock’s direction and murmured, “I’ll wait for you, ya know.”

Sherlock could have cried right there and then, because even after eight years of knowing him, he still couldn’t fathom John Watson. 

John asked Sherlock out again at Christmas, and on Valentine’s Day, and in April, and in the summer.   
But Sherlock still wasn’t ready, and John waited. 

Last week John had asked again, and this time Sherlock said yes. He’ll never forget the look of utter happiness on John’s face at his answer.   


He has had _months_ to prepare himself for this date, so why is he so goddamn anxious? 

“Sherlock,” John says sweetly, lacing his fingers with Sherlock’s.

“It’s not a problem if you need to wait some more time,” he finishes, smiling at him. 

John’s tenderness and the fondness in his voice are all Sherlock needs to snap out of his self-induced state of anxiety. 

A strange sense of calm washes all over him, and he shakes his head smiling at John. 

“No, I... I’m ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know if you enjoyed in the comments!
> 
> I'd really appreaciate if you did because I'm an insecure kid about my writing :)
> 
> Hope to see you next time! :) xx


End file.
